


the heavenly spheres

by illegible



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Growing Up, Reincarnation, ambiguous shipping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:34:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28325412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illegible/pseuds/illegible
Summary: Time moves on after Eden's fall. The Oracles of Light and Darkness learn what it is to be simply Ryne and Gaia. Artemis abandons his own name to begin anew.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 14





	the heavenly spheres

“…I owe both of you an apology.”

At a table in the Wandering Stairs, the Warrior sits across from Oracles of Light and Darkness both. The girls have ordered fizzy drinks for themselves. Their hero declined any such refreshments, and meets their eyes through resolve more than comfort or ease.

It isn’t how their conversations go, ordinarily. They don’t understand at first.

“What happened, out there in the Empty. It never should’ve gone to a fight. No one should have died there.”

Gaia looks at her lap, then. Closes her hands around the fabric of her skirt.

“It isn’t as though he left you much choice,” she says, and for all her attempts at flippancy there is a waver underlying her words.

Before the Warrior can reply, Ryne adds, “That’s right! We could hardly allow Mitron to steal Gaia away like he wanted. You did the right thing, honest!”

A sigh.

The Warrior leans forward, head in hands, and says nothing for some time.

Looks up once more.

“You’re young. You ought never have been put in these situations, but life doesn’t work off what ‘ought’ be. You’re wrong this time. Both of you. And not for the reasons you think.”

Silence.

A deep breath.

“Ascians are just people. They’ve only ever been people. Even when they’ve got the masks and robes. That screaming you heard belonged to _Mitron_ , Ryne. He’s the one you encouraged through every trial. And for all the warnings of your fairie, Gaia… he gave no cause for you to fear him at first. Just a person in pain and you were who he could reach. He had to trust you’d come for him. No one else would.”

Neither of them offer any answer.

“I should’ve told him we’d get him out. I should’ve insisted he take time to recover, talk things through slowly. I… Ardbert, was the one who put him there. Unintentional as it was. Even without being trapped in one place, hurting like that—being alone so long is enough to drive a man mad. He should’ve been treated like any soul who’d been begging a so-called hero for help. But ‘course, I froze. What part of me that remembered, that caused the wreck to begin with, was too caught-up to act. So you did instead.”

Now Ryne is looking at her knees as well.

“…Neither of you had reason to know much better. You did the best you could with what you had, and there’re no situations where abandoning Gaia would have been an option. But what you’ve seen of how I and the Scions handle things—I’d be remiss if I didn’t tell you there are better ways. We treated them like monsters before learning otherwise. Many, if not all, are caught in traps with no clear path out. If aid gives even one cause to reconsider, that’s worth something.”

“What if it’s just like Emet-Selch?” Ryne asks softly. “Or Elidibus? They wouldn’t listen.”

The Warrior sighs.

“It’s always a risk, situations like that. You try anyway. Make violence last course instead of first.” A beat. “Mitron was pleading for someone to save him. We were there. By the time he made a scheme at all, it was only to hide away somewhere with the person he cared for most—away from any force that could cause greater harm. He was alone and afraid. Every dismissal, every accusation, made it worse.”

_Pttptt._

Gaia does not wipe the tears from her cheeks, makes no move to acknowledge them when they fall.

“His name was Artemis,” she says in almost a whisper.

For a time, none of them say anything more.

“Hopefully he’s at peace, now,” the Warrior murmurs. “But he’ll not be the last case, or the only… You’ve got incredible strength. Both of you. Protect yourselves first. If it comes to it, protect the innocent when you can. But please—if you find opportunity to talk someone down instead of doing battle.

Try.”

***

The First rebuilds. Slowly at first, then faster as resources swell and the Empty bursts back into life. Ports are expanded and filled. Mines supplied with men and golems both. 

This time, there is no Exarch. No Vauthry. If a Warrior of Darkness walks the land it is as visitor only. A welcome shadow passing in and out with the years. 

Eulmore finds its footing under Chai-Nuzz, extends its bounty and protection throughout Kholusia. Captain Lyna, young for a viis perhaps, is nonetheless older and more experienced than most citizens of the Crystarium. She dons the mantle of her mentor and wears it well. Fannow and Slitherbough, twins, offer each other strength and weave their lives through the trees as Ronka did. Mord Souq grows and thrives under the canny watch of its caretakers, finds wealth in the traffic of settlers seeking land beyond their borders. And the fair folk revel in night’s return, indulging on occasion visits from their mortal neighbors should the price prove sufficiently tempting.

Though their quantity may be less, there does yet remain a need for adventurers.

It takes time for the Oracles to chart their course. Home has need of them too—finding and aiding those tainted by Light, offering guidance. Beyond that, there remain studies both are called to complete and expand before adulthood. Time to be young, time to learn, time to stand side-by-side with citizens of like age and take what steps are needed into adulthood together.

This they do. And if they each assume at first they can have little in common with such ordinary souls this is soon discounted, for those born to the Crystarium have lost parents, siblings, friends in their struggles against the Light.

Perhaps, Beq Lugg once told them, they will find wandering is their chosen path. Perhaps not. But at last they have time to decide.

***

Gaia is surprised to find herself drawn to botany and weaving. Ryne is surprised not at all.

“You’ll always be able to craft the most beautiful clothes for yourself this way,” says the rogue, grinning. “You’ll put all of Eulmore to shame!”  
Perhaps there is some truth in this, but there’s more to it. Gaia finds it reassuring to wander the land, to recognize plants around her as much as hills and streams. Even should she find herself lost to home and memory both there is comfort in understanding the flora with all its properties. She’ll not want for food, or materials, or shelter so long as she has this. An anchor of sorts. A promise she will never be left helpless.

Besides, swinging a hatchet’s not all that different from her hammer when all’s said and done.

Weaving is different. Rhythmic, soothing. Easily molded around the images in her head. It gives her a means to transform bodies with new shapes and patterns. She can invent and re-invent herself as many times as she wishes. Can do the same for others, should the inclination strike.

From cotton to silk, velvet to linen. It’s a gentle art and Gaia finds, privately, she rather likes knowing she can be gentle too.

***

Ryne struggles to find a path. Beyond her own skill and the sentimental aspects of knife-play, it is an area she holds confidence in her abilities—and, more specifically, her ability to help others.

She dabbles in the healing arts. Astrology reminds her of Urianger, reading stars of the Blessed. It promises paths to greater clarity regarding fate, aether, the world itself. As Oracle of Light, as Minfilia’s successor, it feels like what she _ought_ pursue.

As it turns out, she has no knack for it. Hurling herself time and again into reading cards, into casting spells which offer strength to those around her—she cannot keep the symbols straight. Not swiftly enough to be of use. Her movements are slow, her intuition lacking.

One day, as she paces furiously back and forth across her room at the Pendants, Gaia asks, “Has it not occurred to you that you ought spend time on subjects you actually _enjoy?”_

Ryne exhales loudly, almost a whine, and flops backward onto her bed. A stuffed tiger rests by her side. She pulls it into her arms and glares at the ceiling.

“I should enjoy this.”

Gaia smiles, shutting her eyes. Offers a shrug as she takes the seat beside her friend.

“That’s nothing to do with whether you do or not.” A pause. “…You did well, making my necklace. That and imbuing bullets. Maybe you ought consider something to that effect.”

***

Goldsmithing is a far better fit after all. Intricacy at her own pace a contrast to the flurry of blades.

It’s worth it, she finds, to slow down occasionally.

To spend time on small and beautiful things.

***

Neither of them stop visiting the Empty over the years, though reasons shift.

There are tasks best left to both of them. Aetherial bubbles where imbalance yet remains. Nothing so deadly as a Lightwarden, but minor sin eaters do rise on occasion. Less commonly there are areas elements might swell and burst in disproportion. Mournful souls previously starved for outlets latch to such things, bloom out into beasts of flame and frost, wind and storm. Most excursions involve checking such influence lest travelers come to harm, and for the Oracles of Light and Darkness it is a worthy enough task even without its opportunities to see life expand ever farther.

Sometimes Ryne returns to Eden. Most often Gaia makes that journey alone.

The body is only that. Soulless flesh, a ship, an undying vessel and a reminder. She knows not how to call as Artemis did, finds she does not want to become some ominous faerie to haunt him regardless. But there remains an ache, half her own life and half the other—Loghrif’s.

So on fields cast silver by moonlight, in the predictable hum of the control room, atop the broad and misshapen back which played host to battle after battle… she speaks to him.

Softly. Honestly. Understanding there can be no real answer. She shares the story of her life as if speaking to someone trusted. Loved. She complains about the time Ryne made tea come out her nose for laughing, and the redhead was left snorting uncontrollably around her own mirth at the display. She confides the first kiss she can remember (were there others, before her memory fled—before this lifetime?) and how stupidly nervous the whole thing left her. She reads aloud from her journal, and reiterates the questions she’s tucked away for his return, and writes some more pretending he keeps her company.

_How long has it been since you laughed until you cried, Artemis? I’m sure you’ll shed your dignity in whatever new life you take. With all I’ve shared I do expect you to show me someday._

It doesn’t mean there are no moments of reproach, or exasperation, or doubt.

He can’t hear her anymore. She was too late. 

But for the hundred years he waited, and hoped, and cried out to a soul he might never reach—she can offer this. Can offer no less.

The air here is warm, fragrant with lavender and hyacinth. Water whispers across the earth. Eventually there are birds, and insects, and animals to inhabit the space.

No more harm can be done in leaving. Nonetheless, she never manages goodbye when she departs.

“Behave yourself while I’m gone.”

“Try not to get lost without me.”

“I’ll see you soon.”

***

_I miss you. I probably shouldn’t, for how little we spoke at the end._

_Do you still miss me?_

_I don’t know whether to laugh or cry when I think of you._

_Is that what it felt like?_

***

At twenty-five, they are equal parts relieved and mournful.

The world hasn’t ended. Every night the sun sets, and shadow wraps the first in its arms like an embrace. Sometimes stars glitter with the souls of the deceased. Sometimes they tuck themselves behind a shroud of their own as clouds unfurl overhead.

Sometimes it rains. 

One fourth a century to mark their lives. It’s been less since the sky was restored, but through their own eyes they begin to imagine the weight of that flood.

(That solitude.)

Ryne meets Gaia with a pair of small, golden glasses perched upon her nose. Not garbed in white this time but red, brown, and amber. Her eyes are bright as glass against this array.

The Oracle of Darkness binds her hair back for convenience, but that is perhaps her only concession. Heels severe enough to let her pretend at height she lacks. Dark frills and lace adorn her together with an artfully perched top hat. Face painted to perfection, expression twitching into a wry smile as her companion arrives.

She doesn’t recall her own nameday, to be quite honest. Neither does Ryne. So they settle on celebrating with the return of night across Norvrandt, and slip as a pair unnoticed amidst the other revelers.

Gaia proffers a pouch, explains at length how she journeyed to the Blessed in Rak’Tika to procure it. Inside is a stone of darkest jet, perfectly smooth, set upon a golden chain. Ryne stares, not understanding, and her counterpart touches her hand gently where it hovers above.

“As I understand, it brightens with use,” she explains. “Your aether will define its color. With how many times you’ve carried on about Slitherbough, it seemed time you adopted one of these.”

(There are no guarantees she will connect. This stone was not bound to her at birth, does not carry the full breadth of her life. Still, if any outsider were to inherit such a chance it ought be her.)

Ryne offers a wooden box. Inside rests a pocket-watch, intricate and ticking gently between her fingertips. The thorned insignia inscribed upon its lid.

“I wasn’t sure if it would be alright,” she confides quietly. “Since you told me you wanted to hold onto everything, I thought—I hope this can give you a small way to remember her, too. If you want to.”

Gaia rubs her thumb across it gently, grooves in gold and silver warming by mortal touch.

“It’s lovely,” says Gaia. Then she smiles, almost-scoffs, and adds, “It’s going to stand out like a beacon against my clothes, of course. I didn’t realize you were such a show-off Ryne.”

And the Oracle of Light grins, and presses a kiss to her cheek, and tells her, “I’m glad. The attention suits you.”


End file.
